He went to hold forth at the Cafe des Arts. He had it on good authority, he told everyone, that Deputy Robespierre was sexually impotent. He told his cronies at City Hall, and a few score deputies of his acquaintance; he told the actresses backstage at the Theatre Montansier, and almost the entire membership of the Cordeliers Club.
April 1791, Deputy Robespierre opposed a property qualification for future deputies, defended freedom of speech. May, he upheld press freedom, spoke against slavery and asked for civil rights for the mulattos in the colonies. When the organization of a new legislature was discussed, he proposed that members of the existing Assembly should not be eligible for re-election; they must give way to new men. He was heard for two hours in a respectful silence, and his motion was carried. In the third week of May, he fell ill from nervous strain and overwork.
Late May, he demanded without success the abolition of the death penalty.
June 10, he was elected Public Prosecutor. The city’s Chief Magistrate resigned rather than work with him. Petion took the vacant place. Gradually, you see, our people are coming into the power they have always thought is their due.
CHAPTER 4
It is the end of Lent. The King decides that he does not wish, on Easter Sunday, to take holy communion from a “constitutional” priest. Nor does he wish to cause protest and outrage the patriots.
He decides therefore to spend Easter quietly at Saint-Cloud, away from the censorious eye of the city.
His plans become known.
Palm Sunday: City Hall.
“Lafayette.”
This was the voice the general now associated with calamity. Danton stood close when he spoke to him, forcing him to look up into the battered face.
“Lafayette, this morning a refractory priest, a Jesuit, said Mass at the Tuileries.”
“You are better informed than I,” Lafayette said. His mouth felt dry.
“We won’t have it,” Danton said. “The King has accepted the changes in the church. He has put his signature to them. If he cheats, there will be reprisals.”
“When the royal family leave for Saint-Cloud,” Lafayette said, “the National Guard will cordon off the area for their departure, and if necessary I shall give them an escort. Don’t get in the way, Danton.”
Danton took out of his coat—not a firearm, as Lafayette had half-feared—but a rolled piece of paper. “This is a wall poster drafted by the Cordeliers Battalion. Would you like to read it?”
Lafayette held out his hand. “Some of M. Desmoulins’s instant invective?”
Lafayette’s eyes swept over the paper. “You call upon the National Guard to prevent the King’s departure from the Tuileries.” His eyes now searched Danton’s face. “I shall order otherwise. Therefore, it is a kind of mutiny you are urging.”
“You could say that.”
Danton watched him steadily, waiting for a slight flush along the cheekbones to tell him that the general’s inner forces were in disarray. In a moment, the capillaries obliged. “I shouldn’t have thought religious intolerance was amongst your vices, Danton. What is it to you who ministers to the King’s spiritual needs? As he conceives of it, he has a soul to save. What is it to you?”
“It is something to me when the King breaks his promises and flouts the law. It is something that he leaves Paris for Saint-Cloud, and Saint-Cloud for the border, where he can put himself at the head of the
“Who told you that was his intention?”
“I can divine it.”
“You sound like Marat.”
“I am sorry if you think so.”
“I shall ask for an emergency meeting of the Commune. I shall ask for martial law to be declared.”
“Go ahead,” Danton said contemptuously. “Do you know what Camille Desmoulins calls you? The Don Quixote of the Capets.”
Emergency session. M. Danton obtained a majority against martial law, working on the peaceable and the pliable. Lafayette, in a passion, offered Mayor Bailly his resignation. M. Danton pointed out that the mayor was not competent to accept it; if the general wanted to resign, he would have to visit each of the forty-eight Sections in turn and tell them.
Further, M. Danton called General Lafayette a coward.
The Tuileries, Monday of Holy Week, 11:30 a.m.
“It is a piece of folly,” Mayor Bailly said, “to have the Cordeliers Battalion here.”
“You mean Battalion No. 3,” said Lafayette. He closed his eyes. He had a small tight pain behind them.
The royal family were allowed to enter their coach, and there they stayed. The National Guard were disobeying orders. They would not allow the gates to be opened. The crowd would not allow the carriage to proceed. The National Guard would not disperse the crowd. The “C Ira” was sung. The First Gentleman of the Bedchamber was assaulted. The Dauphin burst into tears. Last year, or the year before, it might have aroused some compunction. But if they didn’t want to subject the child to the ordeal, they should have taken him back into the palace.
Lafayette swore at his men. He was quivering with fury as he sat on his white horse, and the animal twitched restively and shifted its feet.
